


A Sweater Soaked with Heartache

by Beewachan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates, Hurt/Comfort, I used real tags for once wowie, Insecurity, M/M, is this what the kids call, light angst nth too sad, rated teen for one tiny curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beewachan/pseuds/Beewachan
Summary: Atsumu is crying, and Keiji is attempting to comfort him.orA relationship is formed when Atsumu releases tears of tribulation in the arms of someone he doesn’t know very well.





	A Sweater Soaked with Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> so,,, i wrote this last night at like 10pm pls forgive me if it has any mechanical errors; feel free to lmk
> 
> anyway pls enjoy Keiji being awkward and Atsumu’s upset

Keiji wasn’t quite sure what was going on. He didn’t know what to do, no, not quite. His roommate, with whom he’d exchanged only a few words of small talk, meaningless small talk, and with whom he had only one, lengthy, middle-of-the-night conversation with, was crying. Furthermore, he was crying in Keiji’s arms. 

“Please stop, Miya-san; you’re getting tears on my favorite sweater, and it’s dry-cleaner-only,” Keiji said quietly, and only after it had come out had he realized that it was wholly inappropriate.

Keiji watched as the flash of blonde hair moved away from his shoulder, felt it brush against his chin, and it continued to drift away until he and Atsumu were at eye level. “Sorry,” Atsumu spoke just as quietly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, wetting a blue sleeve. 

“I suppose I should be apologizing since I told you to get off of me when I had — have, actually — no idea why your eyes are drowning in tears, so I, too, am sorry.” Keiji may have an aversion to his sweaters being soaked by water high in salt concentration, but he had a heart, too.

“Keiji.”

The use of his first name irked him, but he replied politely, “Yes?” 

“Can I talk to you?” 

“Is that not what we’re doing right now?” Keiji’s eyebrows drew together in slight confusion. 

“I meant, like, um, I don’t know. You get it, right?” Atsumu asked, eyes bleary and voice muted. Truth be told, Keiji got nothing because he didn’t understand what he was to get, but he nodded, figuring he’d catch on later. “Vent. That was the word I was looking for,” Atsumu sighed, and he almost made a tired move forward, to rest on Keiji’s shoulder, but he stopped himself, and Keiji felt _horrible_. 

“You can lean on me if you want,” Keiji said, awkwardly shifting in the bed. “I’ll just go to the dry cleaner tomorrow; it isn’t a big deal.” 

Apparently Keiji wasn’t very good at comforting others because whatever he had just done had made Atsumu’s eyes flare up with more tears, and he let out this awful choked sound that made Keiji freeze in place. Atsumu looked as if he wanted to say something; he opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to be coming out, and Keiji watched as he collapsed on top of him. 

“What’s wrong?” Keiji asked. It wasonly his third week with Atsumu, and he hadn’t become accustomed to all of his quirks yet, and he hadn’t exactly gotten to know what makes Atsumu feel better in times of… tears, lots of tears, seemingly uncontrollable tears.

Atsumu didn’t answer; maybe Keiji would try a less head-on approach next time, or maybe Atsumu was too choked to even try to answer. 

Fingers curled around the braided pattern of Keiji’s grey, wool sweatshirt, and they squeezed as the liquid of Atsumu’s sorrowful, depressed, damaged, melancholic heart poured through the fabric, leaving it clinging uncomfortably to Keiji’s shoulder blade. 

“If you tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can help.” Keiji, finding it to be an appropriate gesture as Atsumu seemed fond of touch, ran his hand along the back of Atsumu’s shirt in a stroke. He rinsed and repeated, placing his other hand that was hanging limply at his side in Atsumu’s hair after some time.

“I hate crying,” Atsumu said almost inaudibly, not moving his forehead from its place of rest atop Keiji’s shoulder. 

“Then why are you doing it?” Keiji asked dumbly, but he didn’t get the abraded response he had assumed he would. Instead, Atsumu’s fingers stopped clinging to his shirt, and his arms were soon wrapped around Keiji’s waist. 

“I’m not,” Atsumu frowned, and a tear slipping down his cheek made his statement a lie. 

Holding Atsumu, Keiji asked, “Is that so?” 

“No, but I wish it were.” Abruptly, Atsumu made the decision to stop supporting any of his weight whatsoever, and he fell on Keiji, toppling the latter until he was back against the small, springy bed, and Atsumu’s face had fallen against Keiji’s chest. 

Keiji had realized by then that whatever it was that had Atsumu in such disarray was not something that Atsumu wanted to discuss, so he didn’t question it anymore. He only kept his arm wrapped around Atsumu’s waist and stroked his hair, like he was a cat.

But he wasn’t, and he could talk, and he could express his feelings loudly and vocally.

“I had an issue,” Atsumu began, “okay, scratch that. I have a lot of issues,” he admitted. “It’s come to my attention that my… foul personality… it doesn’t fly everywhere, and, this is going to sound so dumb,” Atsumu swallowed his pride for a minute, “but my scholarship,” he spoke in pauses, trying to avoid voice cracks, Keiji presumed, “I won’t have it if I don’t, y’know, be nice. To my teammates… because then I can’t play, and if I can’t play, and... yeah.” 

Keiji was familiar with this “foul personality” only through rumors. He had hoped they weren’t true, mostly because he has to live with Atsumu for the rest of the school year, but Keiji didn’t let the newfound truth bother him. He simply thought about how problematic Atsumu’s rumored disposition would be for a volleyball team, communicationally and morally speaking.

“Then be nice.” 

“It’s hard!” Atsumu cried, but Keiji remained patient. 

“Relax.” Keiji could feel the tense muscles in Atsumu’s back against his arm.

“Sorry for bothering you since we’re not even that close,” Atsumu went quiet again. 

“You’re already being nice by apologizing needlessly,” Keiji said in an attempt to comfort Atsumu, but Atsumu only responded with a groan. 

“What even makes someone nice?” 

“A filter tends to help.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Keiji couldn’t see, but he had a feeling Atsumu was glaring at him.

“Don’t tell people what’s on your mind if you know it’ll elicit an unfavorable reaction,” Keiji advised, and it was so obvious, but Atsumu seemed like someone whose definition of obvious was more on the aberrant side.

Atsumu’s arms seemed to have wrapped tighter around Keiji. “I’ll try my best, I guess,” he responded; Keiji could barely hear with Atsumu’s words being muffled by his sweater. 

They lay in silence for awhile, save the occasional sniffle. Keiji stared up at the ceiling while Atsumu stared down at dark grey wool. Propping his chin up against Keiji’s chest, Atsumu broke the silence. “You’re really nice, Keiji.” His eyes were no longer shedding tears, but they were glassy and bloodshot, and his under eyes were puffy, and a horribly brilliant, flamingo pink shade seemed to have overtaken his cheeks. 

“Not really,” Keiji said as he ran his fingers through Atsumu’s hair once more. 

Atsumu buried his face back into the sweater. “I wish I were more like you.” 

As flattering as that was, Keiji frowned. “Be yourself, please.”

“Myself is shit sometimes.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with being human, you know.” 

“Whatever. Thanks for letting me cry on you,” Atsumu said, and Keiji had thought he was going to get up, but he didn’t move. 

“Cry on me as much as you’d like.” Keiji didn’t know why he said that given he hated being cried on, and he felt uncomfortable with his ability to comfort others, but he said it, and now he’d be held liable for his words. 

“You’re the best.” The words put a foreign feeling in Keiji’s chest as his fingers drifted through soft, bleached hair. 

He didn’t quite mind the tears that remained dampening his sweater anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Thaaaaaanks for reading! 
> 
> tbh I should’ve written from Atsumu’s perspective to channel the Pain but I didn’t feel like crying while writing


End file.
